


Reality & Expectations of Recovery

by breatheforeverypart



Series: The Illusion &  Allure of Control [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Black Widow (Comics), Black Widow (Movie 2020), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Parental Figures, Anorexia, BAMF Laura Barton, Ballet, Binging, Bodily Fluids, Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Body Image, Bulimia, Clint and Laura Barton's Family, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Found Family, Found Friends, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intimate Partner Violence, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Miscarriage, Programming, Purging, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery Is Not A Straight Line, Red Room (Marvel), Sestras, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempts, Vomiting, abusive men, abusive women, adopted family, ballet is a cult, dance, explicit traumatic experiences, graphic descriptions of childhood abuse, i've probably included it here, memories of abuse, orthorexia, panic disorders, trigger warnings about, truly dark thoughts, unhealthy coping mechanicsm, you name it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26222155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breatheforeverypart/pseuds/breatheforeverypart
Summary: *Inhales*  Okay.My plan is chronicle the origins of Natasha's eating disorder(s) throughout her life.  Eating disorders, like trauma disorders are rooted in many experiences.  Contrary to popular belief, eating disorders are not vain.  They are not a fad.  They are enmeshed in relationships, attachment issues, anxiety, depression, and a plethora of other things I can't think of at the moment.*Exhales.*  Please tread carefully while you read this.  I am warning you now that I have written many thoughts that have been my own.Many experiences that are depicted have personal origins.  Heed my tags, the chapters may be short, but the content is going to be angsty and dark.Thank you.
Series: The Illusion &  Allure of Control [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904431
Comments: 40
Kudos: 67





	1. 1: Matryoshka

**Author's Note:**

> This story depicts childhood sexual assault and rape from the perspective of the survivor. I dissociated several times writing this, so read with care. <3 
> 
> Or skip it. The next chapter will be more focused on ballet and body image issues.

***

“Shhh.” The monster returned, his breath reeking of pickled fish. His calloused fingers touched her legs. 

The monster had praised her during lessons. He wore shiny boots and the kind of ironed shirt that boasted authority. 

Natalia held her breath. Fear shivered off of her in waves. “My matryoshka.” He murmured, prying her legs open. He pressed himself against her, forcing his fingers into her body. 

Natalia felt her body and mind separate. She considered matryoshkas. They had painted faces, smiles and colorful clothes. Her mother had a set displayed on the fireplace. No one was allowed to touch them, not even her father. 

The monster kissed her neck. He moaned, sounding like her grandmother when she received a ration of sugar. Smells of her family’s kitchen descended over her like a comforting blanket. The fire crackled in the hearth, a venison stew bubbled. Her mother’s treasured dolls watched over the family. 

The dolls swallowed each other. Natalia envied their ability to hide in plain sight. The smallest matryoshka was invisible to all who did not know the secret. Dolls are round, bloated by one of the seven deadly sins. They begged for attention, gluttonous for it. Natalia would not be weakened by those needs. 

Warmth coated her back. Shame brought a full body blush to Natalia’s skin. Madam did not tolerate accidents. They were to keep themselves clean, maintain laundry, clean the dormitory from top to bottom and were held accountable for each other’s actions. 

Madam burned their clothes, dolls and blankets. All tokens of their previous lives were reduced to ash in a bonfire. Some girls cried and protested. Natalia remained a statue. Crying meant punishment. She did not want to be weak. Anne cried and screamed. She refused to eat and sleep. Anne disappeared. Another girl took her bed, her food, her place at the barre in the studio. 

Big girls did not soil linens. The first night the monster visited left Natalia curled against the cold metal bedframe. Blood, urine and semen coated the linens. 

The sting of her teacher’s slap in the morning had nearly brought her to tears. What had she expected? Madam was not her parent. Natalia did not need a mother. She needed nothing. 

Rough skin scraped against her cheek. “Until next time.” He promised. The smell of anise eventually coaxed her mind back to her body. 

She does not eat the candy the monster leaves on her pillow. She will not become a matryoshka. 

***

Natalia will make herself still enough to disappear. Hours tick by until dawn, when the scent of urine finally overpowers the cloying smell of the monster’s candy. 

Her nightgown adheres to her torso and is uncomfortable as she slides off the bed. A flash of blond hair startles Natalia. A younger girl sobs without making a sound on a neighboring bed. 

She knows that a monster has visited her. It must be her first time. Natalia remembers crying so hard, she bit into her arm to stifle the sound. She has learned how to make herself numb. 

Madam’s words reverberate in her head, if one of them fail, they all fail. Natalia helps the girl gather the stained sheets and tuck them under a loose floorboard. They remake both beds in record time. 

They clean themselves and are dressed just as their sestras begin to wake. Measured footsteps began at the bottom of their prison. 

“Yelena.” The girl points to herself her eyes bright, but puffy from tears. 

The key is in the lock, metal grating on metal when Natalia impulsively thrusts the monster’s candy into Yelena’s hand. 

She pops it into her mouth and swallows just as the witches enter their dormitory. 

Their sestras assemble in a single file line and descend the spiral staircase. Natalia recedes into her mind. Yelena knits her fingers with Natalia’s. 

Wordlessly she tethers Natalia for the rest of the day. She prompts her through their exercises and hides her in the back of the studio during ballet lessons. 

Her positions are uncharacteristically sloppy. Natalia dances like a shadow of herself. 

Natalia refuses all meals. She sips water only after Yelena pinches her nose to force her mouth open. Natalia cannot rationalize rewarding her body for betraying her, night after night. 

That night, Yelena wriggles out of her handcuffs and curls herself into Natalia’s side until the monsters return. 

***


	2. 2: Measured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ballet. The beauty of combinations masks the blisters and broken toes. Teachers pinch and prod bodies and search for perfection. 
> 
> Madam rules the Red Room's ballet program in the same way that she was raised. Abuse breeds abuse. The fine arts and sports world are not exempt. 
> 
> Natalia's intrusive thoughts and skewed beliefs regarding her body and food are somewhat solidified in this chapter.

***

Six students stood at the barre. One by one they were summoned to the center of the studio by a tap of a cane. 

Madam stalks her prey like a lioness. She pokes, prods and examines every possible angle of her charges. Ballet has taught Natalia that fear has a distinctive smell. 

Melina straightens her spine after receiving a sharp smack from a cane. “Up!” All visible skin flushes red. Madam shakes her head, which only deepens Melina’s full-body blush. 

Natalia can see the girl’s ribs as she takes in a lungful of air. They are all wearing black leotards and pink tights. Hair is swept into uniform buns, not one strand out of place. 

Madam’s mouth curls into a sneer. “Acceptable.” She yanks Melina towards the barre. She jabs at Melina’s ribs and glowers at each of the girls in turn. “This is what you lack.” She waits a beat, letting the tension rise amongst her pupils. “Control.” 

“All of you.” Madam’s eyes glow with disapproval. “Half rations.” If looks could actually maim, Natalia sensed that all of them would be dead. 

Natalia burns with shame. The skin on her thighs touched and her tights radiated heat. Natalia keeps her gaze down, nausea building as she scrutinizes her torso. She considers her chest, no longer completely flat. 

Madam barks directions and the piano begins to play. Her cane taps in concert with the music. 

As Natalia moves with rest of the class, her hatred grows. Her flawed reflection mocks her. It taunts her, whispering insults as she moves to the music. 

The reflection’s arms bend too much at the elbow, pointy and ugly. Her neck does not have Alexandra’s length and grace. She is grotesque. 

She is short and squat, like a toad. Natalia falls out of rhythm. She misses a step, then two. Natalia is spinning out of control, lost in a hurricane of loathing.

Natalia’s head is pounding with adrenaline. She is vaguely aware of pain, guilt, shame and music. 

Conversations buzz around her. Yelena reaches for her hand, but Natalia takes her place at the barre. She moves without thought. Natalia repeats the syllabus, beginning with plies. 

She remains in the studio long after her cohort is dismissed for dinner. Natalia is unaware of the blisters popping and oozing in her tights. She does not acknowledge the bruising bones in her toes. 

The mirror mocks her. As she repeats the sequence of steps, she visualizes the mirror shattered into thousands of shards. She wants to slice off the pockets of fat that bind her to this hell. 

The piano has been silent for hours, but Natalia dances as if she is suspended by notes. She executes a series of chaines turns and tour jetes. She relaxes her spotting, letting the studio blur in her vision. The dizziness feels like euphoria. 

Her heart races, she welcomes the sweat. 

Pain is what she deserves. 

She will be perfect. 

Her reflection has a painted smile. 

A matryoshka that moves with the precision of a weapon. 

***

Madam observes Romanova through the mirrored window. The foolish child has been dancing for hours. 

She had expected the child to crumble after the punishment. 

One of the weak girls had vomited as her cane crushed bone. Madam had the child eliminated and disposed of immediately following class. Her roses would bloom well this spring. The earth of her garden was rich in nutrients now. 

Instead, she refused to leave the studio at the end of the lesson. Her cohort transitioned to their dormitory, for chores and supper. 

The girl had removed all traces of emotion from her face. She transitioned from third position to fourth, entering a sequence of leaps and turns across the floor. Flawless, she observed. Not that she would ever compliment a student. 

Madam’s glance flicked to the child’s feet. Her slippers were marbled in blood. She knew that her cane had broken many of Romanova’s toes. 

Madam let herself muse as she swallowed the last of the stew. The girl danced like Margot Fonteyn, a raw talent that she could not teach. She would not let this girl fail. Natalia Alianovna Romanova would graduate from the program. 

If the Red Room tore away all Romanova’s weaknesses and expose the marble within, she would be fatal to all who crossed her path. She would graduate and become a flawless weapon. 

Eagerness to begin the process crashed over the old woman in a rare moment of impulsivity. Madam tapped her cane, grounding herself to the drab concealed room. 

She must measure her patience and bide her time.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! 
> 
> My school is opening to students tomorrow, *wish us luck*. Yikes. Given the chaos that I am expecting, I will still try to post a new chapter of this series at least once, but hopefully twice a week. I've got quite a few chapters ready ahead of time! 
> 
> Now for my lesson plans haha. Just kidding, we're just going to be working on tolerating being in the classroom and washing hands.


	3. 3: Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia considers what her life might be like if she had a different body. She dissociates during a visit with a guard. As part of her Red Room training, Natalia and her sestras are learning how to extract information from marks. These 'lessons' translate to sexual assault and rape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! 
> 
> Graphic descriptions of rape, sexual assault, suicidal ideation and murder of a child. Towards the end of the chapter, Natalia considers what it would be like to be buried in a garden, tread carefully if you may be triggered by any of above situations.

***

Natalia envies the dead. The man traces her breast and her body shudders reflexively. She plasters her matryoshka smile on her face and attempts to ignore the sound of the man masturbating. 

She used to think about how she could kill another person. Now, she begins to picture how it would feel to drag a knife across the monster’s neck. 

Her body betrays her on a nightly basis. Natalia hates that age has turned her into a commodity. She had always been small. Madam treated her with outward disdain during ballet practices, singling her out for making mistakes. 

The man straddles her hips, hand stuffed into his pants. Natalia has been losing time during this assignment. She will punish herself for the error. The man grinding against her abdomen smells like liquor and sweat. He is different, how long has she been laying in this cell? 

He wipes his hand on her chest, stroking one of her nipples. Natalia is filled with hate for her body’s response to the monster’s touch. 

Now, she is reminded of how breasts are made of fatty tissue. Useless to her. Natalia will never mother a child. Her body is full of excess weight. She knows what the graduation ceremony means. 

The man laughs and speaks to a colleague just out of view. Natalia opens and closes her fists, forcing herself to breath. 

Madam forbids penetration. The Red Room has invested too much time into their training. She cuts their rations in half, then half again to test them.  
Natalia does not let herself be fooled. She does not scrape her bowl for the last crumbs of the food. Natalia leaves one bite, then two, then half of her potion on the scarred plate. 

A twisted sense of pride floods her brain. Madam will never treat her like a daughter. Natalia will become the perfect weapon, she does not need to be loved. 

Love is for the weak. 

Control makes her strong. 

***

Lukewarm water runs over her eyes. The moldy tile and dark stall spare Natalia from having to acknowledge her body. She scrubs herself raw, embedding soap into her skin and she feels the sting of antiseptic. 

If monsters want breasts, she will make hers disappear. 

The bar of soap leaves a scum that makes her gag as the water drips down the drain. 

If she had a penis, would Natalia be the monster? 

Often, Madam’s arthritic fingers linger over her leotard and trace the fabric of her tights. They share the same genitals. The hair on her arms prickled when Madam’s cold hands lifted her arms and trailed her chin. 

Natalia scraped the rough towel over her body before dressing in regulation pajamas. 

She climbs the stairs to the dormitory and winces as the thin mattress sags under her weight. 

She is swollen with doubt and shame. Natalia repeatedly fails the lessons regarding espionage. 

Natalia is a hurricane, she can incapacitate and dodge attacks. Learning how to flirt is confusing. Yelena is a natural beauty. She makes impulsive choices that Natalia does not understand. She intuitively knows how to extract information through sexual acts. 

Vanya disappears. Rumors spread of how she had straddled her mark during her practical assessment. He had forced himself on her. Madam let it happen and continued to mark her clipboard. 

Her sestra combs through the tangles in Natalia’s hair. Gossip buzzes around the rows of rusted bed frames. One of the sestras is missing. 

Terrified and excited voices crackle around the two girls. Vanya cracked, laughing as she broke the man’s neck. 

Is it true? 

Da. I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. The sestras whisper and Natalia flinches as Yelena begins to pluck hair from her scalp. The braids become tighter. 

She disappears into her mind. Natalia allows herself dream of peace. 

She can visualize her bones beneath the frozen mud in the garden. No more training. No more confusion over lessons. No more visits from monsters. 

She wants to disappear. If she cannot dance, there is nothing left in her life that she wants to keep. Yet, Yelena brushes her cheek. Her sestra in nightmares, she cannot be expected not to care about her sestra. 

Madam’s words and the Red Room’s programming compete with affection for Yelena. Natalia waits for her mind to numb the conflict. Finally, she feels herself melt into the starchy sheet. She can feel her emotions leeching from her bones. She imagines herself cold and calculating. The perfect weapon. 

Natalia knows why Madam’s roses bloom with such vitality. She knows whose blood they represent. Yelena’s tears fall against her plaited hair. They know that Vanya is gone. Natalia warmed by a rush of jealousy. 

Vanya’s bones are free. Natalia pictures her breasts shrinking. She is desperate to feel her bones. 

She lodges the tips of her fingers under her ribs. Rolled skin. 

Too much. She wants to burn every inch of her body that they have touched. 

Natalia is tattooed with their words. The monsters’ spit, semen and stench are imprinted on her skin. She is mutated, tainted and broken. 

Natalia’s greatest desire at fourteen years old is to become a skeleton. She wants to be ugly. If she resembles a boy, maybe the monsters will lose their taste for her body.


	4. Metallic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia continues to refuse food and water. Eventually, an abuser is summoned to 'convince' her to change her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: suicidal ideation, thoughts of death, unhealthy coping mechanisms, violence / physical abuse, restricting, disordered behaviors related to eating. 
> 
> General trigger warnings abound for the dark place that is Nat's mind.

***

After her first kill, everything tasted like metal. She refused to eat, feeling less for every day she refuses meals. 

A perverse sense of control filled her with pride. Natalia knew that her sestras were not defective like her. But, they were innocent. Natalia deserved punishment, she was sloppy and weak. 

Sitting at the long wooden tables in the cafeteria with her chin balanced on her knee, Natalia became numb. Mealtime conversations swirled around her, like smoke. Her matryoshka smile was fading. Natalia would have to apply a new layer of paint in blood, whose blood was entirely up to Madam. 

Her mind blurred at the edges. Students and staff alike whisper their own theories surrounding what exercise Madam had orchestrated. 

Her sestras are allowed to consume. They execute perfect lines of pirouettes and complex sequences without a single faltering step. Yelena deserves to be rewarded. Natalia would do anything for her sestra. 

Natalia dissects plates of food into colors, textures and smells. Everything disgusts her. The more she restricts, the less she feels. 

Days bleed together. Exhaustion skews her already tenuous relationship with time. 

She dresses in layers, sneaking on extra pairs of tights and shirts to keep her teeth from chattering during lessons. 

Eventually she refuses water. Yelena tries to press snow to her lips when they run each morning. The harder her heartbeats, the less Natalia is aware of reality. 

She cannot hear her sestra over the blood pounding in her ears. Natalia cannot recall the last time she spoke. A combination of her mother, Yelena and Madam card their fingers through her hair. 

Yelena shoves her off the mattress. Her sestra kicks her in frustration. Natalia does not respond. 

Eventually, she is marched between two sweaty men with pot-bellies. 

Her head is filled with cotton, but the bright lights won’t allow her to lose herself in the space between wakefulness and sleep. 

Natalia tries to apply her years of training to her situation. How to escape? A dull panic broke through the fog in her brain. 

“No.” She croaked. Her voice sounded raw to her own ears. 

Natalia forced herself upright. The men standing on either side of the cell door lumbered towards her. 

Her vision tunneled and Natalia crashed to the floor. She was dimly aware of hands grabbing at her limbs as struggled to hold onto consciousness. 

***

“Time to rise, Natalia.” Madam prods Natalia’s chin with the tip of her cane. 

Natalia swims through the haze of nightmares to find her ballet instructor’s cane pressing into her jaw. 

“At first, your discipline was admirable.” Madam pinched Natalia’s cheeks together to force her mouth open. “Now, you have escalated it to insubordination.”

The mush or crackers and milk fall out of her mouth. 

Madam is furious. Spittle leaks from the corner her mouth. She has no control over Natalia. She cannot force her to swallow the disgusting calories. 

“You have become sloppy.” Madam strikes without warning, her cold brittle nails digging into her cheek. “Weak.” The slap doesn’t sting as much as the shame of falling short of perfection, again. 

Natalia’s mind drifts. The guilt that choked her fades into the cacophony of her nightmares. She falls into a familiar cycle of loathing, unbearable psychological pain, blissful detachment and fear. 

Hours or days pass. Natalia is not confident in her ability to gauge a concept as sneaky as time with her current concussion. 

Madam removes her clothes. 

Tremors roll through her body like seizures. Natalia is ice, her teeth clench and clatter without her consent. 

Punishment for stealing another sestra’s wardrobe. Natalia almost laughs at the absurdity of the situation. 

Vanya was gone. The fat, muscles, ligaments, tendons and bones of her skeleton were being eaten by bugs and vermin in Madam’s garden. 

“Useless!” Someone tipped Natalia’s chair. Her head crashed against the concrete, blurring the sights and sounds of the room in a knot of pulsing sensory input. 

Madam beckoned one of the men from their post at the door. “Wake Yuri.” 

The name prickled the thick layer of lanugo that failed to keep Natalia warm. The monster knew. He had told her that she was not allowed to die. 

Dust to dust. 

Bones that could not hurt. 

A body that no one would want to touch. 

Peace everlasting. 

The smell of anise preceded the monster’s arrival. 

He loomed over Natalia. “My matryoshka.”


	5. 5: Rubber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Forced medical interventions in the form of a NG feeding tube. Brain fog associated with starvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is short, but dark and includes allusions to cyclical abuse, intrusive thoughts, distorted reality and the generally dark thoughts that are associated with eating disorders.

***

Hands pin her to the exam table. More people are wrapped around her limbs, attaching themselves like barnacles. A sick sense of pride winds itself into her brain. Natalia would not let concede her will to Madam this easily. 

The walls of the room are made of stone and hold moisture, Natalia surmises that she is being kept in the basement of the training facility. Soldat resides somewhere in the bowels of the building. 

An old fluorescent bulb flickers above her head. Instruments clink and her guards confer with each other. Soldat is the idealized weapon. They are not allowed to acknowledge the torture he endures when he remembers the parts of himself that are human. 

Natalia is not allowed to be human. Madam expects her to graduate this year. In a few months she will be forced to endure a procedure that will render her sterile. 

She can only bleed for the Red Room if she is on a mission. Sweaty hands on her face yank her chin upward. The fingers bruise skin and Natalia’s heart begins to race. 

The rubber burns her nose and tears prickle her eyes. The tube will not allow her to die. Madam will keep her tied to this table. The calories will kill her. 

Panic stabs her chest, Natalia cannot breathe. Madam will keep her tied to this table, in this mold-infested cell. She and Soldat will be drugged, programmed and forced into compliance until they become perfect. 

“Stupid girl.” The monster buzzes around her head. Natalia cannot pinpoint his location, which means she is in danger. 

Every breath burns and Natalia lashes out at the warm ghosts gripping her limbs. Madam bares her teeth like the Cheshire Cat. “Focus.” The slap barely registers to Natalia. 

“You will not rest. You have not earned the same as your sestras.” Madam passes a bag of liquid nutrients to Yuri. 

The monster nods to Madam before he turns his predatory attention to Natalia. He titrates the liquid and the calories course through the tube at a speed that makes her gag. 

“Recitation, field manual volume one.” He commands. Natalia is expected to perform under duress. During missions she will be alone, always alone. The Asset does not work with partners. Training takes place under all circumstances. 

Natalia drifts as she summarized the course. The words come out mumbled, from between her cracked and bloody lips. 

Errors resulted in punishment. Madam’s cane rapped her knuckles on the barre during ballet. As a child, she bled on the smooth wood. Natalia learned not to fidget while the pianist prepared for class. 

Punishment led to repetition. Hours of practice meant that Natalia no longer hesitated when monsters visited. She learned how to extract information from the beasts. Natalia secured an endless supply of chocolates for Yelena. They learned how to blackmail guards. Natalia applied this knowledge of the Red Room to their advantage. The danger enthralled the sestras, the weapons were locked and loaded. 

Perfection would be rewarded. Natalia feared perfection as much as punishment. Rewards were not chosen, they were applied. Choices were an illusion. Natalia had been rewarded with monsters visiting her since she was a child. She would not consider their touch incentivizing good behavior. 

The tube seemed to pulse and expand in her throat. Natalia is going to choke on her inadequacies. She craves unconsciousness, but Yuri will not let her attention fade. 

When would she learn that weapons were not allowed to want? Another lesson that Natalia failed. 

Natalia wholeheartedly rejected the calories. Her brain distorted reality and she preferred the numbness of starvation to her actual life. 

***


	6. Options

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia is pushed to limits of her sanity on a solo mission in Germany. As a young agent, she questions her place in the Red Room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: 
> 
> -graphic descriptions of oral rape  
> -restraints   
> -physical injury in the form of cutting a person's neck  
> -mentions of blood   
> -starvation, forced tube feedings, the usual mentions of anorexia as it relates to my head-canon of Natasha  
> -this chapter is written a bit wonky, because I imagine Natalia dissociating heavily to survive the intense trauma she endured during the mission in Germany

***

“Behave.” The mark says, forcing himself into her mouth. His knees clamped her torso like a vice. He thrust his body forward, his knees shoved into her arm-pits. She was pinned to the floor, unable to move. How did this mission fail? Natalia cannot recall. 

The last memory she has is of approaching a leather stool at the bar. When? She had no idea of whether it was day, night, or sometime in between. She had been in Munich, Germany. Fear dumped her body weight’s worth of adrenaline into her bloodstream. 

Natalia gagged and suddenly she could breath. The monster struck her jaw with a fist. The shock of the blow momentarily stunned her as she tipped into the secrets of the Red Room. Under normal circumstances, her training would allow her to calculate her escape and attack. Now, her mind is numb. She is frozen and unable to think. 

Her hands are zip tied at the wrists and held over her head. Her training should have taught her how to escape such situations. She could not think, she could not rise. Madam tsked and left the studio. Shame fueled her pirouettes. The faster she spun, the more erratic her movements. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. She had no one, but herself to blame for her failures. 

Pain throbbed in her wrists as blood struggled to reach her fingers. The bond around her wrists is so tight that no amount of struggling could break the ties. Natalia has tried to break them, hasn’t she? She thought she had tried. Where was her mind? Where was the weapon she had trained to be? 

Now she has lost sensation in both arms, the mark has most of his weight distributed on her elbows. The pain keeps her from drifting into the arms of whatever drug he dosed her with. 

There is a knife pressed against her neck, just under her ear. “Naughty, naughty whore.” The blade slices with surgical precision. 

The monster strokes her cheek, his gaze traveling along her neck. “Look what you made me do.” He swipes a finger along the blade and grins down at her. His tongue licks Natalia’s DNA from his finger.

Natalia shudders in revulsion. Her body belongs to Madam. To the Red Room. To Yuri. She was failing and would be punished accordingly. Black Windows did not yield, they did not surrender and allow violation that was not sanctioned. 

Punishment meant that Yelena would be in danger. Yelena would be disciplined for her association with Natalia. She had made her vulnerable to Yuri’s wrath. 

Natalia must protect her sestra. Ultimately, her body moves without her consent. She is not aware of the mark’s ribs cracking under her heel. Finally, the weapon locked Natalia in the depth of her brain. 

The Black Window acted out of ritualistic programming and years of physical training. Natalia’s reputation remained intact. As the monster’s body disappears into the depths of the Isar river, the weapon begins to lose control of the body. 

***

She wakes in a sticky sweat, her body adhered to the asphalt of an ally. Flies hover, using her body as a kind of parking lot. The world spins and Natalia dug her nails into a brick building. Several steps give way to a tenuous momentum. 

Years of training trap Natalia in her brain. She moves through towns and cities on autopilot. Her body consumes enough food to maintain appropriate activity levels. 

Lodging changes every day. When Natalia finally wakes, like a deranged Sleeping Beauty her skin is raw and prickling with pain. Her skin in clean, hands scrubbed pink. Hallucinations of the monster’s blood confuse her. What is wrong with her mind? 

She heaves into the toilet. Everything she has swallowed is rejected. Natalia retches until blood and mucus smear the bowl. She tastes every monster she’s been haunted by and cannot stem the nausea. 

The texture of saliva in her mouth is enough to trigger another round of vomiting. 

Days, weeks, or months pass. Time is a dizzying concept. Natalia operates in spurts of awareness and ignorance. Programming provides her with enough to sustain her escape. 

Food is consumed, water drunk and basic life functions met. She does not register pain. Her own blood fascinates her. The scratches on her arms are animalistic, she deserves the punishment. She wonders how long she can live without being found. 

Money is no concern as she has learned how to be a parasite of the city. She blends into the masses of homeless people walking the streets and parks. She pretends not to understand the language of whatever country she inhabits. In lucid moments, Natalia considers defecting. 

The thought ensnares her senses her like a drug. She steals from naïve bourgeoise and experiments with freedom. A small part of her relates to the Amish teenagers she saw on television. They severed ties with their lives to gorge themselves on American indulgent culture. 

The screen blurred as Natalia dozed, she did not watch the reality program long enough to learn that most of those teenagers on their Rumspringa committed to the faith as adults. Her dreams are peppered with picturesque scenes of Pennsylvania and the nightmarish dorms of the Red Room. 

***

Even in this, she fails. Madam laughs as the monsters bind her wrists and ankles. Her body is tossed into a closet-sized space. She cannot discern anything from the environment. 

The Red Room tampered with her mind. They made it so that she cannot starve. Her body wages war against her when she is aware for too long. 

Natalia encircles her wrist with her thumb and forefinger. Panic fills her, adrenaline sharpening her senses. She cannot move the pinched fingers past her elbow. 

Too much. She knows that she will have to disappear if she wants to be free. Natalia struggles to stay in control. She walks through cities, then countries until the monsters catch her scent. They are ruthless in their pursuit of the Red Room’s prized asset. She is no more than a weapon, finally she has achieved the same status of The Window Soldier. 

Natalia tastes blood and knows that she has injured at least one of the monsters. Just one, she is losing her edge. Madam will be disappointed. Had she incapacitated all of her captors, perhaps she could win the matron’s praise. 

They are cautious and sedate her before inserting the tube. Thick, calorie rich mush pours into her stomach. 

Natalia is rage personified. She claws at the air, occasionally catching a face or arm. They double, then triple her cocktail of meds. 

Through the haze of tranquilizers, she catches a glimpse of herself in the glass. She is wild, no longer human. Natalia is simultaneously weak and unbelievably strong. She is beyond feeling human pain. 

Soldat is fed through a tube. They forced their way into his brain and stomach. It gets infected periodically, because he does not want to live when he reconnects with reality. On missions, he is always successful. In the time it takes him to return to the Red Room, he exists between the past and present. 

Natalia recalls watching him kill as a child. His fury transfixed her cohort. He is disobedient and punished accordingly. Natalia deserves the same. The rubber burns the inside of her nose, but she will not cry. Soldat and the Black Widow are made of marble. They will overcome their human weaknesses and become the perfect weapons. 

Then, will Madam be proud of her? 

***


	7. Heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia finds herself at the Barton's farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Trigger Warning: 
> 
> -vomiting   
> -perceived forced compliance   
> -past traumas influencing current thought patterns   
> -attempted restriction / starvation   
> -thoughts of murder, violence  
> -descriptions of vomiting, physical illness, passing out, dehydration and symptoms of anorexia

***

American. She is in an American’s house. The man’s family is here. He is an idiot. 

“Um, do you want a taco?” The woman holds a platter heaped with flat rounds of bread. 

Natalia stares at the food. She looks at Barton, the man who did not kill her when he had the chance. His decision to spare her life confused her. 

What was her purpose in his home? To visit him after his wife and child were asleep? To perform manual labor on the farm and care for the animals? Keeping her alive wasn’t a logical choice, unless he wanted something from her. 

“Eat?” The man shot her a lopsided grin and exaggerated miming the action of chewing. He selected two tortillas from the plate that his wife held. They slapped against his hand and Natalia resisted gagging. 

The sterile facility called S.H.I.E.L.D. fit into her idea of a home base. The Red Room was dark and overtly violent. Barton’s agency hid their vicious nature behind open floor plans, shiny new appliances and orderly paperwork. Natalia knew a handler when she met one, and Nick J. Fury was in the same league as Madam. 

The kitchen table is heavy with dishes and chaos. Natalia stands, hands twitching at her sides. How quickly would Clint incapacitate her if she reached for a fork. They were stupid to leave her unbound in the presence of the cutlery. 

Her programming calculated that she could incapacitate Laura easily, the child would not be worth the effort. Clint would be challenging, he would have to be eliminated first while she had the element of surprise. 

They say to ‘help herself’. There are too many choices. The Red Room controls every calorie. In three languages, with the assistance of the internet Clint tells her to eat. 

Natalia does not know how much time passes before Barton’s wife places a stuffed tortilla on the table. 

He continues to use crowd-sourced translation services to tell Natalia to eat. He tries most languages that originate from Eastern Europe, which would be endearing if Natalia were capable of humor. 

Natalia cannot disobey an order. She understands the directive, she cannot feign stupidity. Numbness spreads through her brain like an anesthetic. 

She consumes without her brain’s approval while standing at the table like a feral animal. Yuri’s voice thunders from within the confines of her skull. She has no manners or patience for spy-work. Natalia will fail and bring shame to the Red Room. All of the time and energy that was put into her training will be for naught. 

The bare plate mocks her and Laura’s words twist like a knife in her side. Her praise is a threat. Natalia had discipline, self-restraint and willpower. What had happened to her training? 

***

Hours later Natalia is tethered to the toilet. Any sense of time has been obliterated by nausea, pain from her stitches and dehydration. 

Thankfully her stomach is now empty. Her impulsive binge had been undone, but Natalia had more to purge. Her defection should not have been possible, no one had escaped the Red Room.

Rumors spread like wildfire last year when Soldat did not return from a solo mission on time. Silence had fallen over the dormitory once Alexandra’s lips were sewn shut. Natalia prayed for her death, but it did not come quickly. No god listened to residents of the Red Room. The girl ultimately joined Vanya in Madam’s prized rose garden. Her sestra’s flesh nourished plants that were treated with more care than the Black Widows in training. That was not possible. 

Her body revolted against the decadent American meal, once again proving she deserves nothing. Bright green bile dripped into the porcelain bowl. The glare from the toilet strained her already taxed eyes. 

More time passes as she rides wave after wave of nausea. Natalia can’t stop the retching. Her throat is on fire and she gags with memories of men and women. 

The longer she strains, the weaker her grip on reality becomes. The bright bathroom morphs into basements, hotel suits, gardens and KGB sanctioned vehicles. 

Dark red dots the plastic seat of the toilet. Black fuzzes the edges of her vision. As she slips into unconsciousness, Natalia thinks of ladybugs. Lena liked to shelter them in their dorm, often earning unwanted attention from Madam. 

***

The hair on her arms and legs is irritated with phantom bugs. She imagines herself laying in the garden on a warm summer day with Lena. The grass tickles her feet. 

Something acrid spurred Natalia to consciousness. The world slid into focus, turquoise tiles perplexing her. Where was she? A mission? 

“Babe, she’s waking up.” The stupid American looms over her. Natalia attempts to rise from the floor, but her vision tunnels. 

His wife presses her back to the cool tile. “Take it easy honey. Don’t sit up just yet.” Natalia’s wrist is lifted and fingers search her pulse. 

Clint snorts. “Like she’s capable of doing anything half-assed.” He bunches a towel under her head. 

“Wonderful.” Laura sighs sarcastically. “You’ve brought home a mini-me.” 

He winked at his wife and pursed his lips for a kiss. “That’s why you love me.” 

“Eh.” She teased, brow furrowing as she counted the erratic beats of Natalia’s heart. “You need some fluids, my dear.” 

Natalia tugs her arm away from Laura. She shakes her head and looks between the adults that crowd the small bathroom. No. The punishment must fit the failure. Natalia rejected the American’s hospitality. She is an ungrateful bitch. 

Natalia lets herself drift as the new handlers speak in the space above her body. Their conversation is difficult to discern, English is complicated and doesn’t adhere to usual grammar and syntax guidelines. 

Why don’t they lock her away? Ignore her until she is expected to perform. How can she play the game, if she doesn’t know the rules? 

***


	8. Perverted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia struggles with accepting help from Laura and Clint. She is an enigma that no one on the farm can quite understand. Luckily, some situations don't require language to communicate.

***

She hears Laura and Clint talking outside the guest room. They worry about her. Natalia is proud. 

She is in control. She will not let this new life change her. She will disappear, before S.H.I.E.L.D. can re-purpose her skills to serve the American flag. 

The weakest points of her defenses hate herself more for hurting the strange American family. The woman’s smile is not real. The bed she is sleeping in is not real. They have drugged her again, because she is weak and useless. 

Initially, Laura assumed that the tacos had made Natalia sick. Clint had gagged when he described Eastern European cuisine. Maybe Natalia could not digest the spice of a Mexican-inspired taco dish. 

Her refusal to ingest anything else in the 72 hours that followed, made that theory highly unlikely. 

***

Four hours past the deadline she had set, Laura pinches the skin on the back of Natalia’s hand. Dehydrated. Her husband that consented to the military grade medical kit, which meant she had all the necessary parts of a beautiful IV kit tucked into a closet. 

Natalia’s face contorts at the contact. “Sorry honey, I know it’s cold.” Laura apologizes, tucking her skeletal arm back under the quilt. Natalia’s entire body was coated with a thick layer of hair, a symptom of severe starvation. Her body was burning anything to use as fuel and developed the hair to try and keep itself warm. 

Natalia’s brain crackled with half-formed thoughts and dulled fear. Reality fuzzed, leaving her in a twilight state of rest. She is finally able to sleep without feeling flames lick at her limbs. 

The edges of her nightmares have dulled. She watches herself from the corner of the cell’s ceiling. The body on the mattress jerks like a marionette. Morbid fascination ebbs and flows as the body is raped. 

Time passes, memories whirl, none catching her attention for long. Someone yanks the quilt from her body. Natalia shivers in the absence of the fabric, her teeth chattering violently. 

She has achieved the kind of false haven that only starvation can bring. The face is painted perfection, matryoshka in belief and appearance. The present is too much to understand, she can be faultless. Perfection requires constant effort. 

“Laur, does she have a fever?” Clint’s voice punches through the quiet. 

She is annoyed with herself; weapons do not feel. Illness is not tolerated. The body must remain unmarred. 

Her startle response propels her upright. The achievement is fleeting as her vision tunnels. The monsters roar between her ears and consciousness leaves her. 

“Nat.” Hands brush her hair from her face. The voice is wet. It sounded sad, but why? No one cares for her. They pretend, but only as a means to an end. 

“She’s not sick, not like that.” Laura keeps the thick quilt wrapped around the young woman as she hauls Natalia upright. Clint eases her into a sweater. He barely registers the weight of Natalia’s arms in his as he struggles to control his own tremors. 

Their conversations buzz around her without her consent. Natalia finds herself annoyed, craving unconsciousness. Something cold is pressed into her hands. “Drink a little, then you can sleep.” 

Natalia obeys without question. Her mouth consumes the ice water with no restraint. The voices in her brain scream and beat against her skull. 

She is weak. She is stupid. She is a weapon. She is nothing. 

Ice melts like her resolve to die. Natalia no longer knows what she wants, how can she know something so abstract? S.H.I.E.L.D. wants what Madam wanted. The dozens of lives that she had smeared in her ledger would be transferred to a new flag. 

Laura swayed, Natalia’s body rocking with hers. How could any of this be real? No one has held her and not meant harm. Luckily, she is beyond thought and cannot protest the soothing motion. Laura was not Madam. Laura was not Yelena. Laura had not hurt her…yet. 

***


	9. Consumption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia will obey directives, always. 
> 
> Laura struggles with how to support the young woman, without taking away her agency.

***

Ice has no nutritional value. Ingesting the frozen water was relatively safe. Natalia knows that that she must consume water, in some form or she would lose control of her body. She needs to be aware enough to keep her secrets. She has to be able to keep her sestra safe. 

Yuri had been able to extract information while the tube forced calories down her throat. She must remain focused on the task. The task was important to the mission. When she is distracted, the monsters will take advantage and strike. The cup is painful to hold. Natalia wonders when she became so weak? She was born of winter and ice, in the forgotten traumatized parts of Eastern Europe. Icicles should be in her blood. 

Laura smiles at her from the opposite end of the couch. “Do you want to watch something else?” The TV is barely audible, while the screen displays a brightly colored animated show. Cartoons remind her of her atypical childhood. Natalia is ravenous for the Barton’s attention. But she expects punishment. She is desperately afraid that if she allows herself a bite of anything, she will never stop. Her hunger is dangerous. Discipline is required, Natalia draws a breath and resolve to refuse food simultaneously. 

The cup balanced between her knees is a gaudy pink. Clint had taken the girls over to the neighbors for dinner. The Bishops’ were a traditional farming family that ran a dairy business. Recently they had purchased a few goats and were experimenting with making cheeses. Laura had expressed concerns that Clint would come home with another animal in need of a home. Evidently, his track record for collecting ‘strays’ spoke for itself. 

“Is it okay?” Laura mutes the TV and looks from the cup to the young woman. Laura bit her lip as she watched Nat snap to attention. The drink sloshed at the edges of the cup, barely contained as Natalia startled. 

The only thing she had been able to stomach over the last four days was a concoction of shaved ice, purple sports drink, a bit of cranberry juice and was topped off with chunks of ice. Laura kept adding ice, because Natalia seemed unable to drink a full 18 ounces in less than a couple hours. Room temperature liquids had proved intolerable for her. Clint loved playing with the barely-used blender. Laura had to admit that he made really good smoothies, but Natalia probably wasn’t up to anything with a dairy-base until she could tolerate crackers. 

Natalia nods so fast that her vision blurs. She gulps the drink, hating the sound of herself swallowing. The loathing is so strong that Natalia can only force herself to swallow by digging her nails into her excess fat. She is revolting. She is gluttonous, sinful, weak and useless. She is the reason that Soldat is tortured continually until his memory shatters into millions of shards. Her sestras are punished for her failures in the studio. Natalia is lazy, sloppy and fat. How can she dance for Madam if all she does is waste away on the Barton family’s furniture? Their charity is rotting her body and brain. 

The ice forces her brain and body back into alignment. The remaining cubes fall against one another in the cup as she swallows the last of the horrible concoction. 

Natalia’s thighs touch. She sweats from being huddled under a blanket. She should not need such luxuries; material comforts are traps. Her stomach folds. There are multiple rolls of fat that Natalia feels as she is folded in half with her knees drawn into her chest. Repulsive. Natalia is acutely aware of every fault her body holds. They mirror the failures encoded in her brain. 

***

The ice shatters in a dozen directions. The plastic cup bounces off the hardwood floor, causing Laura to startle. If she can manage to get Lucky in the house, he would have a fantastic time hunting all the purple tinged cubes. That dog had a highly developed sense for anything sweet. 

Laura extracts the cup and moves towards the kitchen. On her way, she opens front door and calls for the dog. Tradition calls to her, and Laura automatically begins creating the definition of comfort baked into apples. Her grandmother used to make the same dish when one of the grandkids was sick. It comforted her and her cousins while they watched daytime TV and dozed under crocheted blankets. 

By the time the Pennsylvania Dutch apple sauce was piping hot and bubbling, Natalia had started to stir. Laura scoops a small portion into a mug and takes a seat on the couch. “Hey lovely lady.” 

Laura tries to keep the waves of emotion from her voice. She’d shed many tears and consumed more information about trauma informed interventions. When it comes to eating disorders, there are complications and barriers to treatment that are rarely talked about in the therapeutic community. She’s combed over free resources and spent hours texting with a friend who picks up shifts on the EDU inpatient unit on weekends. She’d crocheted two scarves out of pure stress-related energy in a week. Which is impressive considering the circumstances and her lack of sleep. Lila was a little night-owl, just like her father. Thank you, Clint. 

They break every family rule by eating on the couch in front of the TV. Laura scooped a spoonful of gooey cinnamon flavored apple chunks. “Mmm.” She gestured. “Nothing cures, quite like a little family recipe.” 

There is a directive, an order. She understands the demand. The utensil is offered, but it is not a question. It is a requirement. Natalia scalds her tongue with the speed at which she shovels apples down her throat. 

She is desperate not to taste. Food is sustenance. Not to be enjoyed, it should be feared. Natalia could not be trusted with food. She had no self-control. She was not hungry. 

Her brain worked at calculating the calories incurred. She had no choice but to obey. Obey or be punished. She resisted, Natalia is dumb with hunger. Her brain told her not to eat. 

Her stomach begins to cramp after the second bite, but she continues to eat until the spoon scrapes the bottom of the ceramic mug. Natalia has failed again. She has no discipline; her brain is unable to calculate the calories that lay heavy in her stomach. Panic gives way to nausea. Shame flushes her skin as Natalia grips the mugs so hard, it shatters. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for your patience with my slightly erratic update 'schedule'. 
> 
> Don't forget to support the educators in your life. We have no idea what we're doing, but are doing more than we can manage every single day (yes, including weekends haha.). 
> 
> My other story, "From Feral Beginnings to Found Family" will be updated over the weekend! Stay well, my friends.


	10. Purge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia wants to purge. Her sestra had that skill mastered, Nat prefers more passive methods in the starvation department. 
> 
> Clint wrestles with how to help his partner understand that accepting treatment is not weak. Striking a balance is not easy, especially when one side won't open a literal door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger Warnings: 
> 
> -purging  
> -vomiting  
> -dark place that is Nat's head  
> -references to suicidal ideation   
> -Natalia as a narrator is unreliable (but we love her anyway)

***

Natalia taps her forehead against the lid of the toilet. Yelena could always purge, while Natalia struggled with the whole concept of inducing vomit. Her sestra used to tease her for her squeamish nature when it came to digestion. 

She had no problem with blood and gore. Natalia had been the first to pass the field medicine exam. She gave excellent stitches with a common needle and thread. Dancing on broken toes did not hurt her, she had a tolerance for pain that was perfect for being a Black Widow. 

She rolls her head from side to side, her the vertebrae in her neck cracking as she gripped the toilet tank. Her cheeks are wet, but she doesn’t remember crying. Tears mean weakness.

Natalia doesn’t know which is worse, disobeying an order or being unable to empty her stomach. She has cursed herself. Nat desperately wants the Barton’s to accept her. 

Acceptance equals well-executed performance. Madam’s lessons were punctuated by piano notes. Her pirouettes were crisp and confident as she spotted the corner. She never saw the blow from Madam’s cane. Never assume a singular focus, Natalia intoned. She had become lazy and bloated in America. Natalia was trusting the flimsy lock on a wooden door to protect herself. Who had she become? 

Her fingers are numb as she lifts the lid to the toilet. Natalia opts for coughing as opposed to inserting a finger down her throat. Natalia cannot risk losing herself in memory instead of the meal. She hacks and sputters, but cannot bring herself to vomit. The door remains closed. Why, she cannot reason. Barton should be breaking down the door, punishing her for breaking Laura’s rule. 

The bowl remains full of clear water. The coughing leaves claws marks in her throat. She gags and spit dribbles down her chin. 

She drifts back into her mind. Thoughts whirl like a hurricane, but none catch her attention. She is breaking apart, an imitation of her former self. She is nothing without Madam and her sestras. 

To be nothing is a tantalizing possibility, but bones would be the perfect punishment.

***

The toilet flushes and Clint risked a quiet knock on door to the guest bathroom. He’s fairly confident that he’s removed all the nails and tools from the bathroom, but Nat could turn a toothbrush into a weapon if she wanted to. Hell, she had done that within her first 48 hours at the farm. 

No answer. He listens for movement, but realizes that his technology assisted ears aren’t going to pick up on the movements of a super spy. “Hey Nat, I’m still here. Okay? Laura told me that you agreed to the whole no bathroom-thing for a half hour after meals?” 

Agreed. That was a term that definitely did not hold water in this situation. Clint strongly felt that she couldn’t consent to much, given the depth of her programming. 

Fury had disagreed and insisted she sign her newly minted life away on a tree’s worth of paperwork. Her contract with S.H.I.E.L.D. had been woven with so much legalese that Clint wouldn’t be surprised if it included rights to her firstborn child. He desperately wanted to send a copy to Tony’s team of lawyers for review, but that was an issue that required another set of skills. 

He continued addressing the door. “Laura will be back soon. Skye’s excited to tell us all about the camping trip. Girl Scouts have the right idea about camping, their tents were on pallets and everything. No muddy sleeping bags and duffels.” 

Silence. Clint knocked again. He was losing the battle to keep the panic at bay. He shifted to an honest approach. “Nat, I’m not going to come in. Your space is your space. Can you let me know you’re still breathing though?” 

Fingernails scratched the bottom panel of the door. He could see shadows like a cat’s paw from his vantage point. 

Relief flooded his system, allowing him to breath normally for the first time since he parked himself on the floor. “Thanks.” 

He lapsed into quiet, scrolling through his phone. He wound up opening a new e-mail window under his S.H.I.E.L.D. account. He knew that Natasha had not been in touch with her therapist for a couple weeks. 

Maria had sent a copy of Natasha’s cleared psych evaluation through the mail. He thinks that she squirreled it away somewhere under the floorboards in her room. Very gothic literature of her. He periodically checked her hidey holes for weapons, but didn’t disturb anything else. As long as her collection of oddities didn’t include a still beating heart, Clint was fine. Laura had introduced a curious Skye and Nat to the entire works of Edgar Allen Poe, so naturally both of them were obsessed. 

He doesn’t bother asking Natasha for permission to contact Paige. He had signed the necessary paperwork back at S.H.I.E.L.D. During her sessions at headquarters, she had only been able to speak with Paige if Clint sat in the corner blocking the door with his hearing aids in his hand. He closed his eyes and took a cat nap once he as sure she wouldn’t hurt the older therapist. 

Paige responds immediately, Clint’s phone making a truly embossing amount of noise as it alerted him to the e-mail. There is an attachment that takes forever to load, even with Clint’s proximity to the router. There are names of professionals ‘more equipped to deal with the severity of Natasha’s illnesses.’. 

He feels gutted and guilty, even though he is not the one who is struggling. Natasha is treating them like new handlers, she would not fight their interventions at the start. He’s confident that Nat would try to please them. It’s her ‘choosing’ recovery out of fear. She wouldn’t be deciding for herself, she would be ‘obeying’ a perceived command. His heart cracks as he reflects on how terrified Nat still is of their familial life. 

He scans the list of programs, calculating the distance from the farm. Laura might know of an inpatient setting that wouldn’t feel so much like a prison. Even as he perused the websites for the programs, his heart sank. He didn’t want to send her away, abandon her again. Nat might not forgive him for pushing her away. 

Natasha had risked so much in her young life, she had fought for every scrap of autonomy she had. But it wasn’t enough, the progress wasn’t enough to save her life. How could he make her understand that, without losing her hard-won trust? 

***


	11. Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The appointment with an inpatient Eating Disorder Unit goes to hell almost immediately. 
> 
> Laura and Clint try to navigate through a landslide of information as they determine how best to help Natasha.

***

Laura made the decision. Clint fumed from the driver’s seat. He bumped the curb as he pulled away from the hospital, muttering to himself. She held Natasha in her lap in the third-row seat. She didn’t know how they would help Natasha, but she knew that she would move hell and earth to get her access to treatment. 

The appointment had been nothing short of a complete disaster. Natasha had been shaking so severely in the exam room that the practitioner hadn’t been able to get a blood pressure or take her pulse. 

Natasha looked through the couple, captivated by monsters of the past. The final strike of the appointment had been when the nurse led her by the elbow towards the scale. The moment her hand touched Natasha’s back, she had snapped. Whirled on the nurse and bit her arm with the tenacity of a teething toddler. 

Before they could call security, Laura had hurriedly dressed Natasha and began their escape from the pre-admission testing center. 

The trio had staggered down a hallway in a poor imitation of a three-legged race before Clint had hefted her into his arms and jogged down the stairs. The parking garage echoed as he stomped towards the van. 

Nat’s body flinched with every step, while her face remained blank. She couldn’t stay upright, even with the seatbelt pulled taut. So, Laura held the younger woman in her arms while Clint drove home. The poor woman’s yoga pants were on backwards and twisted in a way that ensured an epic underwear bunch. 

“She’s not going anywhere. She can’t.” Laura spoke to herself, but also to her husband. Natasha would not survive an inpatient stay in a hospital like the one that they had just toured. 

Clint muttered his agreement. “Yeah. That was made pretty clear after she went all vampire on the nurse practitioner.” 

Laura hummed agreement. “I think we’re blacklisted from any residential program in state. By tomorrow we’ll be on the ‘don’t admit list’ for every reputable place in the tristate area.” 

“Paige promised.” Clint brushed angrily at his eyes. Another person had broken a promise. Why did he keep trusting people? “She said that they would help her, that they would know how to deal with all the trauma and shit that’s killing her.” He couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice. Adults always failed him. They always left gaping exit wounds as they tore themselves from his and Barney’s lives. Oh boy. Any line of thinking that involved his brother never ended well. 

“Honey?” Laura rocks with the motion of the van. The vehicle swerves slightly, driving on the bumpy part of the shouldered highway. She’s lost him to a storm of emotions. She doesn’t have any concern for their safety while he’s driving, he navigates jets in hurricanes. She knows that he’s going to be present enough to get back to the farm. What happens after they walk through the front door is what worries her. 

Natasha is practically catatonic by the time Clint parks in the driveway. The ghost of a woman cannot be coaxed into sitting, let alone climbing out of the van. Laura continued to talk, her voice wobbling with dread. She doesn’t know what she says. Neither Clint or Natasha register any understanding. 

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except taking care of Natasha. The Bishop’s gladly accept responsibility of the girls for the night. Their daughter Kate is a few years older than Skye and is all about learning American Sign Language. 

Laura makes a mental note to video chat the girls on Skye before bed. She gathers a couple tea bags from the cupboard while the kettle boils water. Clint settled Natasha in the living room. She flinched as he loomed over her. Laura noted her husband’s clenched jaw. Hurt radiated from his flushed face. 

He would never hurt Natasha, not in a million years. Laura knew how personally Clint took Nat’s trauma informed reactions. It was almost impossible to remain impartial. The kettle whistled sharply, punching through Laura’s spiralized thoughts. 

***

By the time Clint called Coulson, the clock had already struck twelve. Phil fills the role of a father and counsels him without judgement. It’s a kindness that Clint can’t express gratitude for. 

He paces as he talks. Clint can’t sit still. He’s already puttered around the house and cleaned everything in sight to soothe his frayed nerves. 

Laura is worried any progress they were making has been obliterated. Laura watched him from her position on the couch. The living room is bathed in the glow of the television. Natasha is scaring him, what if all the progress she had been had been utterly obliterated? Her behavior is not reminiscent of anything he has seen. Even after the earthquake, she had responded to stimuli. She had raged against him; which Clint would be grateful for in this moment. 

Natasha’s head is pressed against Laura’s collarbone. Anytime his wife shifted, Nat clutched at her pajamas and whimpered. The vocalizations broke his heart. 

“How’s Phil?” 

“Phil-tastic.” He tugged an afghan off the back of a rocking chair and eased himself onto the couch. Fatigue washed over him like a wave crashing against the shore. 

Laura slowly extended her legs, holding her breath as Natasha whimpered. “I’m getting some good resources from Ally. She’s got professional resources from NEDA.” She lowered her voice, handing her husband the family laptop. 

“Bless you.” Clint yawns. His brain is barely online, unlike their internet connection. Stark liked to update their technology in an effort to guilt Clint into going on more missions with the Avengers. 

“National Eating Disorders Association, not a sneeze. She gets free access through work, there’s a lot here.” 

Together, they scroll through links of information and personal experiences on recovery blogs. As the skim articles, Laura’s phone pings with more texts from Ally. Words wash over them, every few sentences piercing their minds with understanding. 

All of the stories blurred with the tears in Laura’s eyes. Recovery was on ongoing process. She let herself cry when Fury’s number popped up on Clint’s cell. He spoke softly from the kitchen, every few seconds he paused to respond with a militarily accented ‘yes sir’. 

She stroked Natasha’s hair and needlessly adjusted the blanket. Nat’s bones threaten to puncture her almost translucent skin. Laura didn’t know how to make her understand how important Natasha was to their family. She knew that she couldn’t give in to her motherly impulses. Hugging, holding her and offering her creature comforts would only make her retreat into herself. 

Natasha’s mind was a prison, trapping her in an endless loop of re-experiencing trauma, dissociation and starvation to assert perverted control over her life. “You’re safe Nat, I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it. You’re worth our time, you deserve to be here. To be safe.” 

Unbeknownst to Laura, Natalia had woken. She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep. The woman spun quality lies. 

She laid pristine traps lined with poisoned honey. Madam had ensnared her with empty promises, lulled her into trap after trap. 

She had betrayed her sestra, had led them like lambs to slaughter. Their bones screamed nightly from their shallow graves in Madam’s rose garden. 

Across the world, their pain reverberated in her ears. They cautioned her against trust, against the meaningless promises to ‘keep her safe’. 

Natalia would not let herself believe such fanatical lies again. The ghost of Madam that resided in her memory nodded approval at the thought. 

***


	12. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grueling and relentless pace of recovery frustrates Nat.

***

Medical checks every morning with Laura involved a scale that she was not permitted to read. Natalia hated the feel of the worn device that groaned under her feet. She never had access to a scale in the Red Room. Her sestras and the mirrors that covered the walls in the studio let her gauge her disgusting body. 

Nat hated her toes. She hated shivering in her underwear and bra, all of her hair standing on end. She especially loathed the click of Laura’s pen and she made a record of her measurements. “Done.” The older woman handed her a freshly laundered outfit and turned her back to Natasha. 

Laura didn’t leave her alone in the bathroom unsupervised. It was in the treatment plan that hung on the refrigerator. Laura, Natalia and Clint had signed the homemade document in a dull colored pencil, but the sentiment was a serious as her employment contract with S.H.I.E.L.D. 

Even without a numerical value, Natalia felt herself losing the sharp edges of her body. She haphazardly dressed while trying not to acknowledge her physical body. Her mind warped the shape of her thighs into the size of red wood trees. The muscles of her legs were flabby from disuse and months of starvation. 

She tugged a hooded sweatshirt over a tank top, still chilled to the bone despite the additional layers of clothing. Her stomach ballooned like that of a middle-aged oligarch, instantly triggering a wave of criticism from Madam’s ghost. 

“Ready to head down?” 

Three snacks. Three meals. Every day. The burden of constantly filling her stomach caused physical pain. She was not allowed to exercise. Walks to the porch were supervised by Clint or Laura. All she could do was consume. Consume and sit. She was going to die fat and lazy. 

Natalia journals and logs all of her meals through an app to communicate with her nutritionist. She resisted being honest in her logs, grew to hate the placid quotations by artists that she did not know at the end of every entry. But she had recently sprung to the opposite end of the spectrum, bombarding the stupid app with every thought that entered her mind. 

In the kitchen, Natalia squashes herself into the corner of the bench of the breakfast nook. Clint’s latest project had made the kitchen a temporarily war-zone for about a week. He spent hours in the shed, cutting wood for the custom bench. She yanked the hood over the top of her head and typed the passcode into the S.H.I.E.L.D. sanctioned phone. 

The home screen of the app is a too perfect sunset. Nat resists the impulse to roll her eyes at the sight. She had to open the app to a new photoshopped lie six times a day. 

As she answers each question on the Recovery Record app, her frustration grows. She bubbles with anger, like a kettle on the verge of boiling. 

Did you skip this meal? No. But I am a failure for not avoiding meals. Her brain is not working properly, she cannot lie like she used to. The Red Room would be disappointed with the deterioration of her skills. 

How are you feeling? Weapons don’t feel. Feeling is a flaw, a fatal one. 

Did you body check since your last log? Have I ever stopped? Never be satisfied, never accept praise. These are a few of the rules that Madam had instilled since toddlerhood. 

She could overwhelm them with so much honestly, that Clint would eject her from their lives. She deserved to be alone. That way, when they found her, she would not risk harm to Lila and Skye. 

Yuri could capture her, drug her, and re-program her to be their perfect weapon. That thought offers her a perverse kind of satisfaction when she realizes that they would enable her ‘anorexia’. 

The therapists at S.H.I.E.L.D. labeled her with a myriad of disorders that she did not believe in. Natalia knew that the entirety of the DSM would fail to categorize her faults. The only solution, was to make herself disappear. She tapped the phone, submitting the breakfast entry. Natalia wanted nothing more in that moment than to completely destroy herself. 

***


	13. Trials & Errors of Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is not predictable. Natalia and Clint fight against technology to do virtual therapy with her nutritionist. An unforeseen trigger occurs which leads to a disrupted morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for continuing to read. This series is heavily influenced by my own experiences with anorexia and C-PTSD. I hope that you all are staying safe and taking care of yourselves. <3

***

Phone sessions with therapists, one of whom is a no-nonsense nutritionist that scares the shit of Clint. She had long jowls that never lifted in anything more than a subtle frown. Gail relented to his presence during sessions only after he promised to remove his hearing aids. 

Clint took it one step further by closing his eyes and trying to nap. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the patience to meditate and sleep proved to be elusive. So, he mapped out new DIY projects and made lists of supplies. His mind rarely ceased, thoughts always grabbed his attention. He preferred distraction to the memories that came when his hands were idle. 

The appointment took place over a webcam held together with duct tape. Clint squints at the screen, hunched over the computer in concentration. “Come on lady, we do this every week.” The professional has refused to turn on their camera, yet again. This means Clint has to focus on the choppy audio with a level concentration that he does not possess. He would require another pot of coffee to be able to attempt lipreading over a shitty internet connection. He pushes away from the table, blowing out a sigh. 

Natalia tilts the screen of the laptop towards herself, but chooses to keep her body out of the frame. She digs at the skin under her nails, trying to keep her heart from hammering out of her chest. The sharp discomfort barely makes a dent in her anxiety. 

His hearing aids sit on the table. Clint is drumming his fingers on his thighs, ignoring Nat’s weekly session with the stony nutritionist. She had thought of several ways to incapacitate Clint, but not seriously harm him and escape. She’s confident she can hotwire any car within several miles of their farm. But the thought of moving exhausted her. Natalia was a lazy, incompetent, fat, useless ghost of an ex-assassin. 

“Ms. Romanov, has your period returned?” 

She finds herself noticing Laura’s absence. Laura has taken to speaking for her with the revolving door of professionals that weave in and out of their lives. It is not a comfortable conclusion for her to realize. Natalia should not have to rely on anyone, she should be self-sufficient. That is what the Red Room trained her to be after all, so she could become the ideal weapon. 

Laura is with her adopted daughter at a school science fair. Evidently, it is a common American tradition that does not involve torture. Natalia understands Skye’s experiment to involve baking soda and vinegar, common household items that are not inherently violent. 

The explosion is not in the least bit dangerous, which is a little disappointing in Natalia’s opinion. By the time she was Skye’s age, she had built several devices with C4. She had also been exposed to dynamite and grenades. Clint got frustrated and turned a dusky purple when she had signed to Skye that they would experiment with bombs once she became a teenager. Natalia thought that was a reasonable compromise. Her partner although bemused, disagreed with her conclusion. 

“Natasha.” The woman’s voice had lost the edge Nat had come to expect during the torture sessions. It startled her into compliance. “Where are you?” 

She choked on a bitter retort. Nat had no answer for Gail’s latest question. The nutritionist is concerned with her reproductive system. It is a laughable situation, one that she cannot begin to illuminate. This woman had no right to her history, Natalia did not have a complete record of her own past. What gave this privileged American the impression that Natalia would bleed herself of secrets on a whim? “What.” 

“Have you gotten your period? According to the data, your body is recovered enough. Have you had a regular cycle? Do you know the date of your last period?” The questions drop like bombs. 

Natalia doesn’t remember slamming the laptop closed. The table shakes with her rage and the kitchen fades in and out of focus. 

She does not feel the ceramic shards of the broken mug that embed themselves in the bottoms of her bare feet. Fear is all consuming and a hell of a motivator. For a woman who barely has the energy to walk downstairs each morning, she is lithe and swift in her actions. 

The chair that clattered to the floor in Natalia’s frenzy wakes Clint from his mid-morning snooze. Natalia’s mind registers threat and her instincts point her towards the nearest exit. 

She is unable to hear Barton calling her American name. He switches to the name the Red Room christened her with in blood, but she is leagues deep in memory. The depth of her trauma knows no bounds, she resides with the feared beasts of the deepest ocean crevices. 

Nothing can reach her. 

No monsters can touch her. 

No one can control her body. Laura whispers these lies to her when she presumes her to be asleep. If she is truly in control of her life, then she should be able to choose the path of invisibility. But, even in the country of capitalism and obesity Natalia is not free. She is chained to contracts signed in blood and crayon. 

She leaps from the porch, skidding into the dirt. 

Her skin is impenetrable, just like Soldat. 

The blood that drips from her knees leaves breadcrumbs for Clint to track. She is Gretel, he is Hansel, their world is a twisted version of the original dark fairy tales. She crashes through the woods that encircled the property, she craves anonymity and a peace that even the wild forest cannot provide. 

***


	14. Jagged Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares often plague Natalia. She wages an internal war on whether or not she deserves contact with Laura and her family. This takes place within the universe of my story 'From Feral Beginnings to Found Family'.

***

Trapped. She’s pinned against a bed, unable to move. She struggles against whatever is binding her arms to her torso. 

The stench of sweat heightens her anxiety. Natalia knows that someone is on top of her. They are going to kill her. She cannot let them harm Barton. Laura and the girls will be alone. It will be her fault. 

Somehow, Natalia’s eyes fly open. She breathes hard, chest constricted by what she now recognizes as a thick comforter. 

She struggles to orient herself. The room is unfamiliar, sterile in modern furnishings. The person who has grounded her for the past six months is absent and Natalia finds herself unmoored. 

“Miss Romanov. Are you in distress?” An artificial voice booms. 

She rolls off the edge of the bed in shock, whacking her head against the carpeted floor. Did the ceiling just talk to her? 

What did Yuri dose her with this time? He must have used the tranquilizers usually reserved for Soldat. 

The voice lowers its’ volume, but the synthetic tone remains. “Should I call for assistance? Mr. Banner is awake.” The computer paused. “Mr. Stark can be summoned if you wish.” 

“No!” She yelps, immediately regretting the fear that’s audible in her voice. 

Natalia tenses her fingers, loosening the blanket’s grip. 

“May I turn on the lights?” 

She nods, still unsure how to address the omniscient sounding technology. Natalia still wasn’t entirely convinced that she wasn’t drugged and actively hallucinating. 

She could still be trapped in that nightmare. Any moment, Soldat would appear and they would resume training. Yuri would be furious if they were late. No, that fear was unfounded. Natalia was no longer at the dormitory under Madam’s thumb. 

The familiarity of the Red Room’s routines simultaneously comforted and terrified her. The dream that had woken her, she knew it intimately. 

He still haunted her nightly. The ghosts of past targets choked her with guilt. It was one of the reasons she loathed sleep. As a child, hunger pangs had kept her awake. Years of intentional starvation had obliterated her ability to recognize hunger cues. 

She tolerated sleep around Clint because when he removed his hearing aids, he wasn’t aware of anything. Natalia had repeatedly tested this theory until she was sure that he wouldn’t wake. Even still, Natalia stifled her sobs when nightmares yanked her from unconsciousness. 

She could wake in panic, heave and cry into the toilet and he would be unaware. His snores ensured that she was alone. Alone was familiar. She could cope with the humiliation by herself, if someone else was watching the shame of feeling would surely kill her. 

In the dim light, Natalia’s brain whirs to life. Barton had left her at Stark Tower, she was staying with the billionaire inventor while he went on a scavenging mission for information. 

Yes, the bright-eyed Captain America was seeking out his former friend. Natalia did not have the language to explain that his ‘pal’ was not human anymore. 

Natalia sighed, rubbed her eyes and crossed her legs on the crumpled bedding. Evidently there was a source at S.H.I.L.D. who was willing to risk their career to pass information to Rogers. 

Roger’s man, who Natalia recognized as Soldat had ties to an organization similar to the Red Room. Natalia didn’t care about the agencies going to war with each other, she let Barton worry about that. 

Her immediate concern was protecting his kin. “Machine?” 

“Yes, Miss Romanov?” 

Talking to a ceiling was strange, but in a world where she lived on a farm with people who didn’t actively abuse her, robotic voices could be normal. “Call Laura Barton?” 

“Certainly. Contacting Mrs. Barton on your tablet. It is fully charged on your bedside table.” 

“Thank you.” Natalia murmured, hugging her knees to her chest as the video call connected. 

Laura smiled sleepily at Natalia in the soft light of a bedside lamp “Hey chickadee.” 

“Hi.” Natalia waved, propping her head up on one leg. “You are safe? Skye and Lila?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Everyone is okay.” The older woman blinked exhaustion from her eyes and studied Nat. “Have you heard from our man?” Lila whimpered and jostled the device which messed with the angle of the camera. 

She nodded. “Da. He is okay.” Barton had given her a burner phone. He checked in regular intervals with a predetermined code. Technology wasn’t a reliable medium for communication in the field, but Natalia understood that NYC wasn’t equipped for old-school espionage. 

Laura hummed. Covert operations were Laura’s least favorite aspect of Clint’s profession. “And you?” 

She can’t stop from shrugging. Waiting is the hardest part of any mission. Nat knows that Clint has filled his wife in on what the broad strokes of Roger’s objectives. “Am fine.” 

“No, you’re not.” Laura knew that Nat was fighting with herself over connecting with her family. This business with Roger’s old wartime buddy barely made sense. 

Laura wouldn’t have been able to wrap her head around any of this, had it not been for the attempted alien invasion of NY last year. How could she help Nat understand that nothing she could do, would push her away? Laura chose her words carefully. “But it’s okay to not be fine.” 

Nat shakes her head. It is not okay to be weak. The Madam in her mind scoffs at Laura’s lies. 

She waits to be interrogated by Laura. But the questions never come. Where is the punishment? Natalia has been bad. She has not been eating. She has barely been drinking water. Every time she moves, cobwebs burst in her brain. 

The truth of the situation curdles her stomach. She disobeyed her partner. She scraped the plates of food in the fridge into the garbage and dispose of the evidence. The smell of the America cuisine overwhelms her. 

The part of her that wants to survive salivates at the sight and smell of the food. Fear infects her rational mind, squashes the impulse to gorge herself on the carefully portioned dishes. 

Soldat’s inevitable return threatened the progress that Natalia’s had made. 

It proved that nothing in her life would ever be safe. How could she be so stupid as to assume that she could live with the Barton’s? She did not deserve anything normal. 

Natalia’s purpose was to suffer. To cause pain and suffering and snuff out her humanity. Her legacy would be ledgers drenched in red. 

Soldat was beyond saving, as was she. Natalia could seal her fate by ending the Red Room’s bloodline.   
Her last mission could be eliminating their most notorious weapons. 

***


	15. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***TRIGGER WARNING: 
> 
> Hey. This chapter contains vague descriptions of a miscarriage. Several months into Nat living at the Barton farm, they are shopping at Target. She tries help Natasha find comfortable clothes. 
> 
> During the excursion, Laura discloses her early pregnancy to Natasha. Nat doesn't quite know how to react to the news. 
> 
> When Laura begins to cramp and her suspicion of a miscarriage is confirmed, both women grapple with a reversal of caretaker roles.

***

Laura slowed the cart and leaned on the handle, twisting her wedding band. “So, we’ve been sharing a closet for a while now.” The local Target buzzed with activity as they navigated the departments. 

Natasha flushed with embarrassment, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. The bright colors seasonal displays caught her eye, but shame prevented her from giving it a second thought. 

“Which is awesome!” Laura shoots her involuntary thumbs up. Great. She was off to a great fucking start. She felt close to tears and could really use a Hershey bar. Hormonal fluctuations were no joke, even this early in her first trimester. 

“But we finished shopping.” Natasha double-checked every bulleted item from the legal pad. “We have to get Lila. From party.” The youngest Barton was happily smearing icing on every available surface, including her peers. A birthday gathering of screaming three-year-old kids came close to torture in Nat’s mind. But it was an American tradition that Laura seemed okay with, so she tried to accept the sugared frenzy that would dominate the rest of the afternoon. 

“She’ll be okay for a while. I’ve been getting updates from Audra.” She turned the screen of the smartphone towards Nat. “Look at that happy bug. She’s gonna crash so hard when we get home.” She chuckled at the half dozen candid shots. 

Nat flicked through the pictures, icing dotted Lila’s nose and her toothy grin melted the ice around her fearful heart. She had been learning how to appreciate children. Laura didn’t judge the way she fled from a classic toddler tantrum, or how she never directly participated in the girl’s bedtime routines. 

She knew Clint had caught her listening to Laura read them books, just outside the door. She clasped her hands together tight enough to leave nail marks on every knuckle. Natasha had read her partner’s S.H.I.E.L.D. file, his childhood had been as perfect as her own. How could he trust himself to be a father? 

“The clearance sections hold decent bargains if you’re willing to scavenge.” Laura popped a piece of gum from its foil wrapped tray. “Want some?” 

“For Clint, or Skye?” Nat politely refused. “No, thank you.” 

“Neither. For you. And me.” Laura’ hand smooths her stomach. She took the test at work, confirmed it with a blood draw. She had yet to tell anyone about the pregnancy, even her husband. It had taken her so long to get pregnant with Lila. Before their miracle daughter was born, they had lost two pregnancies. She didn’t want to tell Clint until she was sure. If the calculations she made while waiting for the urine test were correct, she was about ten weeks along. 

“Why?” Natasha drags a finger along the sleeve of a sweater. It’s folded perfectly, laid on a cheap display with dozens of choices. America overwhelmed her in many ways, but Capitalism was by far the oddest aspect of her newfound freedom. 

The soft weave is lovely to touch. It covers perfectly, no plunging neckline to expose perky breasts. 

“Well, I forget to update my own wardrobe.” Laura tugged at the worn waistband of her jeans. “Clint doesn’t know how to shop for himself, and Skye barely owns anything worth keeping.” The sewing machine had run around the clock trying to repair Skye’s clothing after her arrival at the farm. Laura had patched what she could and cut the rest into rags for cleaning and crafting. 

“Why are clothes…important?” 

“They’re not, I guess.” Laura slid hangers with a precision of someone who grew up shopping sales. “I, um. Might be in the market for some bigger clothes.” She pressed an open palm and cast a sheepish glance down at her abdomen. 

Natalia dropped Laura’s smartphone. It thudded against the grungy carpet. 

“This is…happy?” 

Laura bent to retrieve her device. “Um. Yeah, we always wanted a big family.”   
Natasha nodded. “Good.” She awkwardly opened her arms. She patted Laura’s back without letting their bodies touch. Natalia had been rendered barren, by people who saw her as a commodity. 

Laura inhaled sharply, brow furrowing. Her body tensed with a strange anticipation. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. It’s fine.” She dug around in her purse for a chewable antacid. “Just some heartburn.” 

They browsed the women’s section, finding nothing that interested Natalia. Laura pushed the cart, bending more at the waist as time passed. 

Their search through the men’s department had proved more fruitful. The clothes had functional pockets, were well constructed and allowed movement. Natalia had settled on a pair of loose-fitting joggers and was folding the correct size when Laura moaned. 

“Laura.” Nat reached for woman, automatically scanning her for a gunshot or knife wound. “Where?”

“It’s okay.” She hissed, still doubled over. 

“You are not okay.” 

“Let’s just go. Self-check out. It’ll be faster, hmm?” Laura blanched and hummed through another spasm. 

Natalia scoured her brain for anything that could help her friend. “What can I do, what do you need? Hospital?” 

“No!” Laura straightened, leaning heavily on the handle of the shopping cart. “We came with a list, we have a plan.” She forced herself to breath, retreating into her mind. 

Natasha recognized her detachment. How did Laura deal with her, when dissociation fogged her brain? She offered help, but never forced her to speak. “Plans change.” 

“I can’t.” Laura argued weakly. “Nat, this isn’t supposed to happen.” She chewed her lips, rocking to another cramp. 

“I know.” Natasha guided the cart to the bathroom and through the web of individual self-check out kiosks. She scanned groceries, bagged them and steered them through the bustling parking lot. “I know, sestra.” 

***

Nat applied her vast knowledge of operating military vehicles to the Barton’s minivan. She was pretty sure that Maria had manufactured a NY state license in addition to other mandated documents. 

“Laura.” 

“I’m good.” She lied. Laura had a crumpled, but clean pull-up of Lila’s spread under her pelvis. It bunched, but Laura didn’t register the lumps. She had half of Target’s one-ply toilet paper stuffed into her underwear. She had an appointment with her OBGYN in the morning, but her only option on a Sunday afternoon was to head to the ER. She was not going to wind up in her own place of work. That was gossip fodder Laura would avoid at all costs. 

“The pregnancy…you are losing it now.” 

Laura nodded sharply, unable to speak. The rest of the drive blurred together in a strange mix of toddler jams and winding country roads. Contrary to her nature, Nat obeyed all the speed limits. The faded bumper sticker on the rear window summarized her reasoning. She was indeed carrying precious cargo. Her American sestra and comatose toddler were more valuable than any material possessions. 

Nat hiked a sleepy Lila over her shoulder and wrapped an arm around Laura’s waist. They hobbled up the steps of the porch in an odd sort of dance. 

“It’s okay. Really Nat. I’ll be okay.” In a complete role reversal, Laura sealed herself in the bathroom. Natasha startled as Laura clicked the lock, shoving the warped wood into place. 

Lila napped in her toddler bed, supervised by a handheld monitor. Nat stood the matching monitor at her feet and slid to the floor. From her position, she could hear Laura’s stifled sobs. 

Google had flooded Nat’s brain with information that confused her. There was so much she did not know. Yelena had been right about everything. Their bodies were supposed to bear children. Why was such a natural process terrifying to her? 

Laura grieved the loss of abstract potential. Biologically she understood the desire to procreate. Natasha empathized with her sorrow, but failed to connect with the situation. 

Motherhood had been as possible as becoming an astronaut. How could the body that she hated and tortured for years, ever grant her something so innocent? 

Natasha knew that she would be a terrible mother. A parent who courted death and attempted to control every emotion with starvation and risks would never provide a safe home for a child. 

Everything she touched rotted like compost. Her sestras taunted Natasha from their dirt lined garden graves. Laura deserved a life, complete with children and a loving if not goofy husband. 

Nat’s mind continued to churn, trying to make sense of the frenzied thoughts. Motherhood, sex, innocent children, distorted abdomens and above all else, bafflement. Natasha had not had the opportunity to process her sterilization. At the time of the surgical ceremony, she had been grateful to be given an opportunity to serve the Red Room. A child would hinder her ability to be a perfect weapon. 

***


	16. Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Banner and Natasha get acquainted at the Tower. They keep running into each other at night when they can't sleep. Over some tea and conversation Nat starts to understand the benefits to having 'familiar acquaintances'.

***

Dr. Banner excels in chemistry and lab work. He fails at sleeping. Even with his PhD, Bruce could not establish a routine that consistently aided his erratic sleep patterns. 

Yoga hadn’t helped. Now, he had a crick in his neck after accidentally holding bow pose for way too long. He winced as he pressed on the throbbing nerve. Any amount of pressure radiated tension along his left side. 

He padded into the kitchen. He reversed the automatic blinds, allowing the Common Room to be bathed in moonlight. There was something peaceful about the wee hours of the morning that Bruce craved. 

He wiped a hand along the cool marble. Tony had recently updated the appliances and countertops. Well, Pepper had gotten permission to make it a bit more accessible and domestic. Sam was an early bird, pun intended, and puttered around the kitchen. He liked to ‘optimize’ the pantry and cabinets. Unfortunately, this resulted in his tea being relocated every so often. 

Bruce clicked on a burner and sat on one of the new bar stools. The leathery fabric irritated him, but he was willing to sacrifice comfort for a piping hot mug of tea. Chamomile might do the trick, but mint was also soothing. 

While he waited for the kettle to boil Bruce flipped through the ringed laminated cards. Barton had left a shoebox full of fidgets and other therapeutic materials. 

He had tried all the usual coping mechanisms in his repertoire, well it wasn’t much. He had yoga and…tea. That and walking the halls on the residential and lab floors. Nothing caught his attention, although he read the brightly colored pamphlets while he waited for the kettle. 

He tuned into the sound of simmering, slightly disappointed that it wasn’t boiling yet. The Big Guy and he did share the trait of impatience. 

He looked up for his reading, to find a pair of eyes blinking at him from across the counter. 

He screamed, toppling off the stool. The Hulk roared internally, quaking his bones. 

Natasha cocked her head at the unassuming scientist. “Why.” 

“Why?!” Bruce yelped, his glasses askew. His skin bubbled with rage, but he managed to stay his methodical self. “You could’ve…I could have hurt you.”   
The Big Guy wanted to snap her like a twig. NO. Bruce scolded, he dug his nails into the fleshy part of his waist. The monster growled, but released his grip on Bruce’s mind. 

She let loose a hollow laugh. “Ah. No, I do the hurt.” Natasha wagged a finger and smirked. 

Banner stared at her in disbelief. She oozed lethal intelligence. Bruce hoped Jarvis was monitoring the interaction. How could she be this calm? It had to be an act. 

What did she want from him? Everyone wanted something. And he couldn’t deliver on any of their demands. He was the weakest member of the team without losing control. Everyone wanted to use him for his rage. 

Bruce pulled himself to the counter just as the kettle began to screech. “I’m sure you can.” 

Natasha examined the half dozen canisters of tea. “Do you have…oolong?” 

Midnight tea party. He could manage this interaction. Bruce tried to calm himself, despite the blood pounding in his ears. “I think so, check the smallest one. Cardamom is a nice touch if you like honey.” 

She scrunched her nose in doubt, but opened the canister. “Strong.” She sniffs the tea nodded appreciatively. 

“Well, we’re not sleeping anyway.” Bruce fiddled with his glasses. 

“I drink to that.” Natasha kept the marble counter between them, but didn’t bolt from the invitation. Contrary to Tony’s opinion, she could manage civil interactions. 

“Cheers.” He tapped their mugs, wincing as the ceramic clinked. 

***

She held the mug close to her chest as she curled up on the couch as far away as she could from the perplexing Dr. Banner. 

An excessively large TV played quietly in the background. The screen backlit the Common Room. Pepper’s taste and sense of style was the common theme that lined the Tower. 

“Do you need anything? Sugar? Honey? Some lemon?” Bruce tried his hand at a bit of friendly conversation. 

She looked at him, bewildered by his behavior. He tried too hard, it was unsettling and odd. 

“Thank you, no.” Natasha straightened her already perfect posture and attempted a demure expression. Barton would be impressed with her efforts. 

It would be easy to intimidate this mousy scientist. Why was everyone so afraid of this weakling? Oh. The transformation into a monster. Silly and naïve of her to forget that. 

Bruce tried to smile, succeeding in grinning creepily like the Cheshire Cat. “Do you like to read?” He asked, searching for common ground. 

She nodded. 

“A fellow bibliophile. Finally, I have someone to share my library with.” 

“Where?” She looked skeptical of walking anywhere with the potential monster. 

“Down the hall from my office. May I?” Bruce tapped the screen on a charging tablet. 

Natasha inclined her head. 

A fuzzy screen cleared to reveal shelves of books. “You make the system…on own?” 

“By genres, then alphabetically of course.” 

Natasha noted that he separated books by soft and hard cover too. He would make an excellent librarian in another life. 

“You like history?” She asks, knowing the answer as she forms the question. The camera pans to another bookcase, each shelf addressing a different era. She almost smiles at a shelf that divided Russian history from that of the USSR. 

“Non-fiction. I live enough of a sci-fi existence. History has irrefutable evidence. I like the truth in it.” 

“Truth. Is matter of opinion.” Natasha shrugged, keeping her attention on Dr. Banner’s secret library. “Books are same as people. You get different truth with each one.” 

“Makes it kinda hard to exist in that world, doesn’t it?” 

Natasha sipped her tea and considered his statement. “Nothing new. You know how cruel truth make people.” 

“Do conversations with you always end with depressing realizations?” 

“Is my nature.” She lightly tapped her mug with Bruce’s. “Do you have anything on Russo-Japanese?” 

“Actually, I think I do. Dr. Strange…” He paused his search to mime some of Stephen’s tai-chi like moves. “Gifted me some for my birthday over the summer. Personally, I think he was doing a little house cleaning…but the thought was nice.” 

Natasha swirled the dregs of tea leaves and let Dr. Banner’s soft voice wash over her. He was non-threatening company, a bit of background noise for her nightmares. 

They chatted until the sun burned brightly through Stark’s massive windows, casting bright pockets of light on the tech in Common Room. 

Avengers had yet to shuffle into the kitchen in search for caffeine, but they would be arriving soon en mass. Natasha found something comforting about the potential a brand-new day held, she could pretend that she was normal for a few minutes, before the weight of all her past lives came crashing down again. 

Soon enough, they would be disturbed and the fragile peace that middle-of-the-night talks held would shatter. But for now, Bruce helped her create something called a Goodreads account, where they could track books and search for new series to explore. 

Perhaps, this whole living with other people ‘who don’t always want to harm you’ had perks. Natasha enjoyed his subtle fusion of teas and found herself hungering for his collection of books. One of which was tea, and the other was non-judgmental company at odd hours. 

***


	17. Steady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery has bright moments. Clint is quietly proud of Nat's progress and observes her at a family picnic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's been a while, but I've recovered from the holidays. With a bit of space and perspective from triggering situations I'm able to write for this fic again. Thank you for reading!

***

Natasha glides into the wood-shop with Lila stomping her mini Wellies behind her. 

Clint waves a hand in front of his face, disturbing the swirl of wood dust. Apparently, there is a picnic in progress. 

“Thanks, guys.” He wiped the sweat with the stretched neck of his worn shirt. 

People assume that Clint is dumb. They think that he is indifferent and naïve. Lila runs into his arms. He smiles at Natasha. 

Skye waves them over to the horse blanket with a variety of food laid out. 

Clint smiles at the sight of Nat in a short sleeve shirt. It’s been months since he’s seen her in anything but a sweatshirt. She carries herself like she holds space in the world. 

Natasha’s as close to happy as he’s ever seen her. 

“Daddy, look.” Lila pointed to the bagged sandwiches. Appreciation for his wife’s creativity swelled. These weren’t ordinary crusts-cut-off snacks. Laura had used cookie cutters to make hearts, llamas and a robot. Raspberry jam and almond butter oozed from between skinny pieces of rye bread. 

“Shapes, yes.” Natasha corrected. 

Skye launched attempted a cartwheel along the fence of the paddock. She shouted to get her aunt’s attention. 

His eldest daughter tumbled in the tall grass. “All right, where’s Mom? This looks beautiful.” He finished signing with a flourish. 

“Mom’s getting the muffins. We made blueberry.” 

“Yum!” Lila skidded towards the blanket. Her appetite mimicked Clint in a scarily accurate way. She vacuumed up meals with a ferocity with would give any normal human heartburn. “I want a llama.” 

Natasha studied her niece. “Which one for your sister?” 

“A heart.” Lila selected the biggest sandwich and passed it to Skye. 

“Thank you!” Skye signed. She found a llama-shaped snack and scooted towards Nat. 

Clint automatically held his breath as she offered the food to Natasha. He half-expected her to smack the sandwich out of Skye’s hand and bolt into the forest. 

What actually happened nearly brought tears to his eyes. Gods, what kind of man had he become? Maybe the last week or so of insomnia had messed with his head more than usual. Ah, trauma. The gift that keeps on giving, decade after decade. 

“Barton, you are practically drooling.” Natasha scolded with a wry grin. “Eat.” 

You first, he thought. Clint kept the words in his mouth, but quirked an eyebrow. 

Natasha inclined her head and systematically tore the sandwich to shreds. 

“Cute, right?” Laura folded her legs, crisscross applesauce style. “Gotta love Pinterest.” 

Nat flicked her gaze to Clint before dividing an already minuscule bite in two.

Conversation flowed, Skye chatting amicably about her day. Lila tried to talk through a mouthful of half-chewed sandwich, which earned her a reminder about manners from Laura. 

The breeze tugged on Nat’s hair as she nibbled on the crust-less animal shaped lunch. “Cheers.” She raised the sandwich in a sarcastic salute. 

Time dawdled after the picnic lunch. Lila and Skye chased each other around the farm. They signed and laughed in the afternoon sun. It was a beautiful day. Clint flicked his toes and rubbed the calloused heels of his feet in the dusty ground. 

Laura had wandered over to the fence that the Barton’s shared with the Bishop’s property. She chatted with their neighbors with a social ease that Clint had never mastered. 

There was nothing like being outside. He would live out on the property year-round if his body could tolerate the cruel weather of New York state. His childhood had been the opposite of stable. He had literally been raised without rules, in a damned circus. Oof. That was a runaway train of thoughts that he didn’t have the mental fortitude for at the moment. 

“What is in your thoughts?” Natasha sipped water from a thermos. “Can feel you thinking from here.” 

“Nothing.” Clint lied. He squinted at the shape of the clouds. One kinda looked like Ironman, zooming past his head. 

“Liar.” 

“How do you do that?” He rolled to close the distance between himself and his partner. “Ugh. Between you and Laura, I have no secrets.” He complained. 

“My superpower.” She rolled a crumb of bread between her fingers. “Maria have lots of secrets at work. Enough to fill many ledgers.” 

He pretended not to notice the llama was now headless. “One of many of your talents.” He laughed and then groaned inwardly at the thought of returning to S.H.I.E.L.D. in a couple weeks. 

Natasha huffed and nudged Clint with her socked foot. 

“Ow.” He poked her calf muscle with an index finger. Progress was progress he supposed. Nat had adjusted to civilian life better than he had when he’d joined S.H.I.E.L.D. 

She looked like a human who had connections in the world and relationships that she cared about. He was proud of Natasha. She was more than a partner, more than a friend. Nat was chosen family. 

Saying all that wouldn’t be possible for Clint. So, he chose his words carefully. “Wanna help me with the bench?” 

“Da.” She crumpled the empty plastic bag. “I get to use banned saw.” 

Eh. Her language had exploded over the last few months. Words like ban-saw were so specific to English, why should he bother to correct her? “Wouldn’t have it any other way. But you gotta use the safety goggles.” He signed as he yawned. Nat was five or more languages past tri-lingual. He hated English and got lazy with his ASL. 

“So, do you.” She pointed to the half-dozen bandages wrapped around his fingers. 

“Deal.” Nat formed a fist and offered it to Barton. “Skye teach me. She says I be popular doing this.” 

“Well, then teach me. I could always use a lesson on trendy shit like that.” They settled into a comfortable banter and whittled away the afternoon in a swirl of wood shavings. 

***


	18. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is a war. But the sides are unpredictable and fueled by experience and fear.

***

Nat’s body and mind were at war. This was not a new phenomenon. She had the ceiling fan going on full speed. Her skin pimpled and Natasha didn’t know what else she could do for the hot flashes. 

Her chest heated despite the constant breeze, but her hands and feet remained half frozen. Her body steadily rejected the whole re-feeding process while Natasha’s brain oscillated between outright denial and objective acceptance of some nutrition. 

She glanced at the stack of books Laura had bought on the nightstand. All of the recovery ‘experts’ droned on and on about the benefits to one’s brain coming back online. 

What if numbness wasn’t something to be feared, but a tactical advantage? Dissociation had saved her life. Why would Nat want to lose that ability? It was a kind of superpower, like Hawkeye’s impeccable aim. 

Natasha couldn’t make herself toss the blanket aside even though she burned with a kind of fevered panic both physically and metaphorically. 

Hell, she was wearing joggers and one of Clint’s t-shirts as it was. Anything else would be too tight and probably make her do something self-destructive. Laura wouldn’t appreciate more stains on her linens, and she couldn’t claim something normal like a leaking pad during her ‘monthly cycle’. The Red Room had robbed her of a normal uterus and anything resembling a healthy body image. 

Natasha was disgusting and whale-like, but she wouldn’t create more work for her only friend. Someone who for reasons unknown to Natasha, still tried to boost her confidence and make her understand how loved she was by members of the Barton family. 

The books glared at her and no about of staring would make them stop. If only Yelena could see her now, losing her mind by challenging a bunch of bound paper to a staring contest. The titles were annoyingly placid and placating. 

Because she had already lost the battle for sleep, Natasha pulled the shirt and scrutinized her stomach. It was no longer flat. 

She had failed. She poked at her abdomen, fisting rolls of skin until her nails left angry marks. 

No one mentioned the physical consequences of refeeding. The bloating, hot flashes, constipation, exhaustion, all of it was unbearable. Laura tried to normalize her body in ways that she could understand. 

But her efforts didn’t matter. Natasha didn’t judge Laura’s body. It had grown a child, her niece Lila. Laura wore clothes with confidence. 

Clint loved his wife, despite the pouch of loose skin around her abdomen. She had carried a child and protected another life with her own. There was a freedom in her confidence as a woman that Nat found impossible to understand. 

The monsters in her brain demanded her attention. 

She failed day after day to challenge herself in recovery. Her treatment team probably laughed at her behind closed doors. What was the point of trying? 

Laura would probably throw a damn party to celebrate her so-called progress, but Natasha suspected the truth. The Barton’s were placating her. Their praise was unearned. 

Some ghosts calculated how to lose water weight quickly. She would relish the headache as dehydration set in. Easy, she knew how to lose herself in the particulars of anorexia. 

Natasha truly believed that she had been born a natural organizer. She categorized, planned and ordered her body into submission to control the chaotic world. 

It was a hopeless war that she insisted on fighting. She kept doing it anyway, would she always fight these battles? Find herself in an endless cycle of bloody battles and temporary truces. 

Starving was as familiar as breathing. It comforted her twisted mind as her famished body eroded her brain with shame. 

Glimpses of her sestra’s skeletons called to her. The way their cheekbones jutted from their skull. Or how their clavicles pushed forward as their spines straightened at the barre. 

Others urged her to unearth the razor she had stashed in the metal mint container. Had she stuffed it in a boot or was it under the mattress? 

Neat, painful lines could so easily be carved on her fatty thigh. The punishment would be a nothing compared to the half dozen ledgers she’d filled with her sins. 

Natasha held her breath, clearing her brain of all rational thought. As her mind shifted to survival mode, she lost all of her fight. 

She turned to her side, holding herself as she cradled a stuffed rabbit of Lila’s. The toy’s plush fur rubbed against her chin and masked her painfully distended stomach. 

Under the heavy comforter, she was able to press an elbow against a protrusion of her hip. 

It comforted her as she scrolled through a kind of social media site that Bruce had set her in her name. Well, one of her new aliases anyway. She could remain anonymous. Most nights she told herself that the website was a conduit to modern culture. 

People posted symptoms that Nat intimately related to. Did that mean that she wasn’t crazy? Or just irrational in a different way? 

Natasha dozed until her stomach cramped and she crept to the bathroom. The digital scale tempted her from its nook between the sink and tub. Clint had removed the batteries. 

They were probably locked somewhere with the plastic encased razors and other weapons. It was a truly muted effort, given the caliber of spy Natasha had proved herself to be. 

If Natasha wanted to tear herself open and obliterate all the progress she had made, she could. 

She chose repeatedly to make herself chew and swallow regular meals. It nearly killed her, but Nat did it. It was as easy and painful as her childhood in the Red Room. 

***

That’s how Laura found her the following morning. The clawfoot tub had become a sort of refuge for Nat. Often, she cocooned herself in a bleach stained beach towel, hiding herself in the smooth antique curves of the tub. 

Recovery was anything, but predictable and consistent. But, Nat had slept. In fact, she was still breathing evenly. Her face furrowed in frustration and discomfort. Even Nat’s own thoughts tortured her in unconsciousness. 

Laura resisted the urge to comb her fingers through Nat’s hair. Nightmares had twisted her soft waves into a tangled mass. Laura might borrow Lila’s toddler de-tangle spray. It smelled like synthetic apple, but it definitely lived up to its’ ‘no more tears’ label. 

Similar dreams must have plagued her husband too. They often communicated without words and shared traumatic experiences as they leaked out through the daily monotony of farm life. 

He had tossed and turned for most of the night. He would down a whole pot of coffee himself if she didn’t supervise breakfast. A quick glance at the clock told her that he would be asleep for at least another hour, she could hide the super strong beans in that time. 

She gently closed the door and shuffled down the stairs to the kitchen. A cup of tea was the perfect offering for a brand-new day. Hopefully their demons would fade in the bright sunlight. 

Nat could choose recovery again. Every bite was a choice. A step towards life. 

***


	19. Initiation to 'Normal'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha ventures into a whole new world...cooking. Laura involves her in family meal prep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so tired and haven't edited this appropriately. I'm hoping for some tea and writing time this weekend! Any and all mistakes are mine. These characters are Marvel's and I am so happy to play with them.

***

“Smells good, right?” 

No. It is liquid fat. Undisciplined eating. She’ll gorge herself until she died a beached whale. 

“It’s so important to let the onions cook before adding the garlic, there’s nothing worse than burned garlic. Ew.” 

False. Laura mostly exaggerated things that didn’t matter. The stakes were low and made Nat think of her spoiled American life. 

Many things were worse than a bit of scorched seasoning. Including eating regular meals and not exercising. That’s ridiculous. 

“Okay. Turn that down, it’s gotta be on the lowest setting.” 

Natasha’s hand turned the burner to low before her brain processed the command. She would obey. 

“Dude. The stakes aren’t that high. I’ll eat anything, this isn’t the Food Network.” Clint shook his head at his wife. The tone of his comment was lighthearted, but there was an edge to every word. 

“Oh honey. Before you met me, fresh produce was as confusing to you as theoretical physics.” 

Nat stops poking the sizzling garlic chunks to quirk an eyebrow at her partner. 

“Okay, okay, but in my defense.” He smiled at his wife. “I was raised in a circus.” 

Clint and Laura volleyed friendly quips, but Nat barely heard their conversation. The hiss of the oil threatened to drown her. How could she eat the fatty calories in this meal? 

“Ready for the couscous?” 

Oh. Laura had asked her something. Crap. She used to hear everything, she never missed a conversation or a squeaky step in the drafty dorm. 

Now, her brain was full of holes. Information leaked out faster than she could fill it. Sometimes, she preferred it that way. The less she felt, the more she could strive for perfection. 

“The what now?” Clint asked, squinting skeptically at the bag of spherical grain. 

“Like rice spaghetti.” 

“But they’re round.” 

“And the zucchini’s ready. Let’s go people. Tummies are rumbling.” 

Laura handed her a perfectly formed lemon. “Zest this once the zucchini cooks off a little moisture. They’re like sponges…absorb all the yummy flavors of whatever you’re making.” 

“How…will I know?” 

“Guess.” Clint interrupted. He had an armful of stacked plates and silverware. 

Laura rolled her eyes. “Ah, no. We’ll do it together. Stir the chopped zucchini into the garlicky sauce you made.” 

Nat shot her a look of pure surprise. 

“Yes, you made it.” “See how it coats the veggies? It’ll be nice to toss with the couscous that Clint’s making.” 

“Shit!” He cursed, letting the plates clack against the smooth table. 

“Trick question my dear.” She winked at her husband. “It’ll be done in four minutes, I’m keeping an eye on the clock.” 

He sagged with relief. “That wasn’t funny.” 

“It funny.” Natasha said. 

“Hah.” Clint glared at his partner and stuck his tongue out when his wife’s back was turned. 

“Okay! Why don’t you gather the kiddos, do hand-washing and all that jazz.” She waggled her fingers. 

“Aye, aye, Captain.” 

She blushed. “Okay, Nat. Grab a fork and like…fluff the couscous.” 

“I…what?” She sputtered. 

“You know.” She mimed mixing a nonexistent saucepan. “You’re doing great Nat, I’m proud of you.” 

“Is nothing.” She tipped the pot of calorie rich grain into the oil slick veggies. 

“It’s a whole lot more than nothing.” Laura gave her the courtesy of not demanding eye contact. 

If she had, Natasha was sure she would have flung the simmering pan straight in the sink. Instead, she shrugged. 

Wordlessly, Laura nudged her with an elbow. She returned the touch with a light bump of her hip. 

One meal wouldn’t kill her. She had touched, smelled and worked with all of the ingredients. Before her time at the farm, Natasha hadn’t used a kitchen in the traditional way. 

Cast-iron meant brain damage. Cutlery had many predicable uses, but it was boring. She preferred to get creative, with fun gadgets like colanders, egg separators, cake testers and more. 

Skye dubiously eyed the squidgy veg hidden among the pearled couscous. “Pasta?” Her diet rivaled Clint’s in terms of processed, cheap, hollowed of nutrients food. She had stared at Nat, mouth agape when she had said she had no idea what ramen was. 

Natasha arranged her face into one of amused confusion. Or at least, she hoped Skye would recognize it as such. “You can put cheese on top. You’ll like it.” The child lived on boxed mac and cheese before Laura introduced her to all the benefits fresh produce had to offer. 

“Thanks.” Laura winked at her. “Want some?” She tapped the last of the calorie filled granules off the spoon and re-sealed the bag. It melted onto the warm dish and Nat’s stomach growled conspiratorially. 

“No.” Yes. She pushed at the mushy zucchini. She gagged at the thought of the texture in her mouth. It disgusted her, but her stomach betrayed her. Her body wanted to inhale the steaming bowl. But power came from discipline. What kind of example would she be setting for her sestras if she gave in to temptation? 

“Not half bad, Nat.” 

“Ignore him.” Laura smiled at her. “It’s great.” 

Skye shoveled food into her mouth at a pace that rivaled her sestra Yelena’s pace. She mimicked her adopted niece’s approach and let her body direct the meal. She could pretend to be normal. For a meal, she could feign being ordinary. 

***


End file.
